Countdown
by GeorgyannWayson
Summary: Just when John believes that he finally knows Sherlock well enough, Big Ben comes under attack by a mysterious, magical force. And once again, John is proven wrong as to just how much he really knows about his flatmate (Story two in a collection of challenge fics) *Complete*.
1. With the Last Chime of the Clock

_This is a challenge fic for the Let's Write Sherlock Trope Bingo Challenge on tumblr. The prompt is simply 'AU: Magic'. Please enjoy :)_

* * *

**Countdown**

**Chapter One: With The Last Chime of the Clock**

He swore that the blasted chip and pin machine was going to be the death of him. After that first humiliating encounter, John was determined to prove not only to himself, but to the rest of London that he could use the bloody contraption without a problem. But yet again, it usurped him and he was back to raging at it within mere minutes of trying to use it.

Not even Sherlock's antics and behavior could compare to the insanity of that machine and inspire such a strong reaction from him.

As John walked up the stairs after entering 221B, he thought very briefly about blogging about his experiences –after all, it could be funny to some sick person out there- but decided against it. It was already humiliating enough to know that a part of London saw it all happen, much less have the entire world laughing their arses off at his expense.

He opened the door to the flat to see that Sherlock was speaking to what looked like to be a client.

And a very posh and important client, at that. He was dressed in a sharply-pressed suit and his shoes shone as though he had spent hours shining them –or perhaps spent a pretty penny to have it done for him. How the stranger had managed to squeeze himself into John's chair and not crush it flat was a miracle; he was as big as a house, his ruddy cheeks jiggling as he turned his head around to look to the door.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said with a clap of his hands. "You're just in time." He paused and sighed. "Another row with the machine, I see."

"Yeah, of course you do," John muttered as he shut the door to the flat behind him and removed his jacket to hang it on the coatrack.

"Mr. MacGregor, this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said to the man sitting across from him. John took a seat in the empty chair next to Sherlock and cleared his throat.

"How do you do?"

"So this is Dr. Watson." Mr. MacGregor's voice boomed with cheer as he leaned forward to shake John's hand. "I am so pleased to meet the face behind the famous blog."

John smiled, but quickly scowled at Sherlock's eye roll.

"Yes, yes, famous blog; certainly an accomplishment _if_ you can call it that."

John sighed in slight annoyance. "Hang on, don't I know you from somewhere?" he said after studying the man's face for a few moments.

"Most likely from the papers. Being the Permanent Secretary attracts some unwanted attention these days." The man's chortle made the very walls of the flat shake, his many chins wobbling and dancing. "I'm here by association with the elder Mister Holmes," he finished after his laughter was exhausted.

"Oh, really? You work with Mycroft?"

"You could say that," Mr. MacGregor said mysteriously with a wink

"If you don't mind," Sherlock broke in impatiently. "I'm really not in the mood for the mindless chatter and would like to get back to the issue at hand."

John half expected Mr. MacGregor to be offended, but was surprised at his hearty chuckle. "Mycroft certainly wasn't joking when he said you have a one track mind, Mr. Holmes." He leaned back to relax, his hands folded on his lap. "To give a quick recap of what I just relaying, Dr. Watson, I have come to seek the assistance of Mr. Holmes for…an investigation into a matter that has come to light concerning the Elizabeth Tower."

"Big Ben," John said. He had yet to get used to the new name for Westminster Palace's famous clocktower.

"Precisely. It seems that there's a rumor of a…sort of mystical being spotted around the clock tower."

John's eyes slid to Sherlock, who instead of looking as though he was about to fall asleep or tell the man exactly where to put those rumors was actually holding his hands in front of his mouth, seemingly intrigued by the whole matter. Which didn't make sense; to Sherlock, rumors were just that- rumors. What could he possibly think was there to even investigate?

"And this…being," John finally said with a frown. "No one knows what it is?"

"No," Mr. MacGregor said. "But judging by the testimonies that we've gathered, it seems that whatever it is, it's extremely powerful – too powerful for any ordinary man to confront."

John blinked. If Mr. McGregor actually thought that Sherlock had some sort of magical ability that could take on that…whatever it was, he was sorely mistaken. Sherlock was brilliant, yes and sometimes defied the laws of human observation and psychological profiling, but he didn't go around pulling rabbits out of hats and telling people to pick a card, any card.

Sherlock was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn't a magician.

And John opened his mouth to say so, but at the slam of Sherlock's hands on the armrests of his chair, he paused and expected Sherlock to say it for him.

"I'll take the case."

John sputtered. "Sorry, what?"

"Splendid to hear, Mr. Holmes, absolutely splendid," Mr. MacGregor said with a loud clap of his hands. "Mycroft was very right to refer me to you. I trust that this little rumor will be put to rest in no time with your help. Well, I had better be off. Good to meet you, Dr. Watson."

John nodded dumbly, watching with slight amazement as Mr. MacGregor pulled himself up from the otherwise unharmed and still-standing chair.

"And good luck to you both." With those final words, the man took his leave with loud, heavy steps and Sherlock got to his feet.

"Well, I suppose you've got some questions," he said as he went into the kitchen.

"Yeah…yeah, what are you doing taking on a case like this?" John got up and followed him. "This isn't murder, Sherlock; this is a rumor about some kind of powerful…demon-spirit thing flying around Big Ben. You're wasting your time with this; who even knows if these people aren't trying to get a rouse or attention or something?"

Sherlock stood and simply watched John.

"And besides, you're not some kind of wizard," he finished.

"Oh, John." Sherlock smirked and picked up a beaker full of what looked to be water. "That is where you underestimate me."

John barked out a humorless laugh, but at the bubbling of the water in the beaker in Sherlock's hand, he felt the sound catch in his throat and felt his jaw drop. As soon as it registered in his mind that the water was actually boiling without any fire under it, it started to freeze and little ice crystals began to form at the base of the beaker.

_What…in the bloody hell-_

As instantly as the water froze, it was back to liquid and crackling sounds and pops of electricity floated and bounced around the entire flat. To John's utter surprise, the water almost alive with pure power, as though if someone even placed their finger in the beaker, they would find themselves electrocuted. And yet, almost as soon as he was about to actually accept what he was seeing, the water turned back to its normal state, free of any abuse that had just been inflicted on it.

Sherlock set the beaker down and waited. John looked between his flatmate and the beaker.

"You…you…you can-"

"Control elements, yes," Sherlock finished flatly. "Only certain ones, though: fire, ice, and electricity. I suppose that you could say that it's…magic in its own right." He rolled his eyes. "The term is quite frankly overused and grossly misunderstood, so I would much rather call it for what it is: ability."

"How…you….why…how is it that I haven't seen this before?!" John practically shouted. "You mean to tell me that I've lived here for months and I've somehow missed that you can conjure up fire, ice and electricity at will?!"

"It had yet to come up with a case," Sherlock said with a light shrug. "And I usually try and keep my powers under tight reign when I'm around others. Quite honestly, they've gotten me into some trouble over the years and I've had to practice some extreme self-discipline in using them. If I'm too free they start to get stronger and then it becomes harder to control them. If I don't use them enough, they become weaker and I risk losing them. So I have to keep a delicate balance between the two. You haven't seen it because I haven't let you."

"Wh…who…wha…" John felt as though the world had gone mad around him; magic –ability, whatever he called it- didn't exist. It just didn't. That was something for fantasy novels, not real life…wasn't it?

"Is…is your whole family like this?" John finally asked in a level voice.

"No. My father's side doesn't have a drop of magical blood. The last known person with powers like mine in the family was on my mother's side – my great-great-grandmother. Was quite known for her healing ability all throughout Europe."

"Healing ability?" John repeated with a blink.

"You know, like a doctor, except…not." Sherlock picked up his phone from the table and quickly dialed a number, placing it to his ear. A few seconds of pause paused, and then he took a deep breath.

"Brother dear," he said with a cheesy cheerfulness that made almost John smile. "Nothing, nothing at all; just wanted you to know that I accepted the case from your absolutely lovely colleague, Mr. MacGregor."

Mycroft's voice on the other end of line immediately deepened and John likened it to the voice of an adult character from a Peanuts cartoon.

"No, that's not sarcasm," Sherlock said with an eye roll, still managing to keep up his feigned enthusiasm. "At any rate," he continued, "I'll need to borrow some supplies from you for my investigation into this little matter."

The voice on the other end of the line droned again.

"You know exactly what I mean by that," Sherlock said flatly. "Don't act like you haven't had one of your CCTV cameras watching that entire conversation. I'll need it all by nine tonight, if you can manage it." He paused again. "But of course if you're just going to be like this, I could just break into your house and get it myself," he said innocently. "Maybe I'll also stop by your cupboard and put all of your soups out of order again – I know how much you love it when I do that-"

John distinctly heard Mycroft say Sherlock's name.

"Nine tonight. Don't forget." He hung up. "Well, that was eventful. Now, I'm off to Scotland Yard to prove that a little old man gutted his neighbor with a plastic spoon. Won't be long." With those casual last words, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and swept out of the flat with a grand slam of the door. John stood and watched the beaker of water and slowly, he reached to pick it up –thankfully, it was cool to the touch-, placing it in the palm of his hand. But as much as he tried to get the water to do what Sherlock made it do, it stayed unmoving in the beaker. With a sigh of both defeat and exasperation, he set it back down.

_Just when I think I know him, he has to go and reveal that he's some kind of bloody wizard. I just can't win._

* * *

The doorbell rang at a minute to nine later that night.

"John," Mycroft said with a polite smile as the door opened, letting in a gust of spring breeze.

"Mycroft." John moved back to let him in and shut the door behind him, turning to follow Mycroft up the stairs. With a sweep, Mycroft walked straight past the couch where Sherlock lay with eyes closed, two nicotine patches on each arm.

"Try and return these the way they've been brought to you," Mycroft said dryly as he set the two velvet bags down on the table by Sherlock's laptop.

"Not even a wish for good luck. Really, where's your sense of brotherly love?" Sherlock murmured without opening his eyes. "Mummy and Daddy would be so disappointed with you."

"I'm sure that they would understand, considering the circumstances. I imagine that this news of Sherlock's abilities was a surprise to you, John," he said as John took a seat back in his armchair.

"Um…yeah, just a bit."

Mycroft stared at him. "Huge surprise, apparently," he said after a short once-over and John internally rolled his eyes. "Sherlock isn't exactly tactful with talking about the magical bloodline that runs throughout our family. Then again, we haven't exactly been very open about it."

"Who would even believe us if we talked about it, anyway?" Sherlock mused.

"Who would, indeed?" Mycroft's face twisted into a somewhat grim smile that was actually quite normal for him. "At any rate, I shall leave you to this. Hopefully, you can do something about this…creature." He walked toward the door and paused. "Oh, and try not to set the Westminster Palace on fire, encase it in ice or stop the clock with rampant electricity. That would be a right sight to explain to Her Majesty."

"I'll certainly think about it."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Please do." With that last sarcastic command, Mycroft walked out of the flat and down the stairs, the front door shutting behind him with a soft snap. John drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"What's in the bags?" he asked.

"Very important tools to help us with confronting this phantom."

"So you're calling it a phantom now?"

"Much better than calling it a ghost or a demon. Plus, it sounds more exciting." Sherlock sat up and shot to his feet, stepping on the coffee table to make his way toward the velvet bags.

"So," John said after a few seconds of watching Sherlock weigh the bags in his hand. "Does Mycroft have an ability of his own like you?"

"Yes."

"Well…what is it?"

"He can stop time."

A pause.

"Stop time?" John repeated.

"Well, how else do you think he gets so much done within a day?" Sherlock asked as though it were so plainly obvious. "His ability is actually something very unique." Opening one of the bags, Sherlock reached in and pulled out a worn river rock, completely covered with what looked to be ancient markings in some kind of primitive language. "He has a verbal chant –that only he can use- and he also has this stone which can be used by pretty much anybody. He keeps it under lock and key, though; doesn't want to be responsible for some kind of butterfly effect."

He set the stone down on a bare part of the table. "But the catch is this stone is only effective when Big Ben chimes thirteen times."

"Wait, thirteen? But there's only twelve hours on the clock."

"Sometimes, according to legend, the bell actually rings a thirteenth time. And that gives anyone with the right access a way to basically 'cheat the clock' and waltz around the world while it's in a state of limbo."

John shook his head. Just when he didn't think things could get any stranger.

"How do you even know the thirteenth chime is going to happen tonight?"

"Trust me, it'll happen tonight."

_Trust him, he says. Right._ "What's in the other bag?"

"You'll see," Sherlock said mysteriously, taking it and walking to the kitchen. For a second, John considered staying to see what was being created in the makeshift kitchen laboratory, but with a sigh, he got up and picked up his laptop from the table.

"I'm going up to get some rest before we go."

He left the flat just as Sherlock was firing up the centrifuge.

* * *

John tried to pass the time with writing a new blog and watching telly up in his room, but he still found himself getting increasingly nervous as midnight approached. When he felt that he had exhausted YouTube's supply of cat videos –including Nyan Cat-, he went down to the flat and saw that Sherlock was standing at the window, staring out into the street below.

"It's almost time," Sherlock said distractedly. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." John clenched his fist as his hand began to very slightly shake. "So how is this done?"

"We wait for the thirteenth strike, and make sure we're touching the stone when it happens."

"Right…right." John took a seat at the table, warily watching the old stone that sat so innocently on the blank slate of table. It had to have been extremely old – probably older than Sherlock's great-great-grandmother. And the symbols…if he didn't know any better, he could swear that his eyes were playing tricks on him and that the grooves of the stones were actually waving…

He tore his eyes away as the chimes of Big Ben began to ring out across London.

_One...two…three…_

"You could always back out, you know," Sherlock said. "It's not too late."

_Four…_

"No, no, I want to come along." John waved his hand in dismissal.

"Suit yourself, then."

_Seven…eight…_

"Do you have a plan on how to handle this phantom if we meet it?"

Sherlock turned around from the window and touched the stone. "Not really. But that's the fun with it, isn't it?"

John sighed –_of course_- and reached to touch the stone, the rough ridges of the inscription making his hair slightly stand on end.

_Eleven…twelve…_

…_Thirteen._

And with the echo of the last chime ringing in John's ears, he watched as the world around him literally stopped.


	2. At The Clock Tower

**Chapter Two: At the Clock Tower**

John let go of the stone and looked around the flat. The fire that had been burning in the fireplace, the experiment that Sherlock was cooking on the Bunsen burner in the kitchen and even the hums and clicks of the different appliances around them had all stilled. The beating of John's heart thundered in his ears like a mighty war drum, and he could feel his breathing getting quieter - whether in was in slight shock as to the reality around him, or to subconsciously blend in with the environment, he wasn't entirely sure.

"Interesting when the world is quiet, isn't it?" John felt himself flinch at Sherlock's casual observation. His voice sounded amplified, as though it was being fed through to a speaker set at maximum volume.

"More like eerie," John replied as he got to his feet and followed Sherlock to the coatrack.

"According to Mycroft, we have maybe two hours to sort this whole thing out." They walked down the stairs to the front door.

"In other words, plenty of time," John said dryly.

"Exactly." When they walked outside 221B, John stopped to let someone pass him…and then remembered that the person in question couldn't actually move. His brain was being overwhelmed with so many different crazy sights in front of him: a cab in mid-motion of pulling away from the kerb, a couple locked in a kiss and a father tossing his curly-haired toddler up in the air. Literal snapshot moments preserved in real life; it was truly a remarkable sight.

"Here."

John looked to Sherlock's hand. "What's that?"

"A drink – or potion, if you want to call it that. It'll give us the ability to fly." John stared in utter disbelief at the bright blue liquid in the small bottle. "My great-grandmother needed to get to different places quickly as a healer, so she took to flying everywhere."

Slowly, John reached to take the vial and studied it against his hand. "And…no brooms required?" He felt Sherlock give him a droll stare.

"I won't even dignify that with a response," Sherlock said as he pulled another bottle from his pocket and, with a dramatic sweep, downed the liquid and wiped at his chin. "Well, go on," he said with a nudge to John. "Hurry up, we don't have much time."

Slowly, John opened the bottle and smelled the liquid, quickly pulling it back. "Smells awful."

"And it tastes like tar to boot. Drink."

Willing himself not to gag, he quickly drank the liquid and coughed, stuffing the vial in his pocket. He could feel it literally slide down his throat like thick goo and he swallowed hard as he could to clear his throat.

"Now, hop up," Sherlock said. John braced him and hopped off his feet, expecting to land right back on the ground…but he didn't. He stayed up and still, his body feeling as though all of the muscle, blood and bone that weighed him down had literally disappeared. But clumsily, he floated around and Sherlock had to hop up and grab his hand. To John's annoyance, Sherlock's body moved and floated around as though he had been flying since the day he was born.

"Stay close to me and don't let go of my hand."

John sighed. _Well, at least people can't see us, so they won't have reason to talk. _Together, they flew in the direction of Westminster Palace and toward Big Ben, which glowed like a beacon in the night. John blinked against the steady gust of wind blowing onto his face, willing his eyes to stop watering so that he could actually see. But thankfully, Sherlock seemed to know exactly where they were going and before long, they were landing on the highest balcony that went all around the tower. John took in the sight of lights decorating the London landscape below and they distantly reminded him of lightning bugs on a warm summer's night in the countryside. Sherlock -who was apparently not the slightest bit interested in the view- took a seat on the ground against a pillar.

"So…how exactly do we get this phantom to appear?" John asked as he turned around to find somewhere decently comfortable to sit.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

"So the plan is to just sit here and hope that it shows up?"

"You make it sound as though I don't know what I'm doing."

"Well…yes. That's exactly what it's meant to sound like."

"John, trust me. It'll show up."

John sighed and grunted as he took a seat next to his friend, resting against the pillar behind him. "I've been meaning to ask you: how exactly can Big Ben chime thirteen times?" he asked after a few seconds of silence.

"The general belief is that some people hear a thirteenth chime because one of the quarter bells is hit twice in succession."

"In other words, it actually doesn't exist?"

"To some people," Sherlock said with a slight smile.

"But it actually does."

"To some people."

John threw up his hands and looked up at the night sky. The stars looked so tangible, as though he could've just reached out and plucked one away right from its spot. "Oi, how did you even know that the thirteenth strike was going to happen tonight? And don't say 'lucky guess' or whatever other rubbish you're thinking about trying to fool me with," John interrupted as Sherlock opened his mouth to answer.

"I used a magic square to calculate an estimated date-"

"Of course the square you used had to be magical. Because why use a regular square when it could be filled with magic?" John could feel his voice getting more hysterical with each uttered word. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't need regular ordinary squares anymore; he's a wizard, only magical squares will suit his purposes now-"

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock muttered with an eye roll. "Will you relax? It's a method that's commonly used in recreational mathematics. It's quite simple, really; Mr. MacGregor provided me with the approximate dates that the phantom appeared and I used a magic square to organize the numbers until they all equaled one number across and down the individual rows. The row of numbers that I came up with happen to coincide with today's date."

John blinked. "Really, is there anything about maths that you don't know?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It comes with the territory of having a mathematician as your mother."

"Of course it does." With a sigh, John relaxed back, ignoring the slight pangs of his body's protest against his position, and let the sounds of a still world lull him into a light sleep…

* * *

Sherlock's sudden jerk almost made John jump clean out of his skin.

"What, what?"

"There." Sherlock pointed toward a black shadow that was slowly, yet steadily approaching the clock tower, the gentle whoosh of its graceful gliding breaking the stillness around them. Though the light of the clock was bright, the shadow moved around in the darkness above them and John could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It flew in a circle, getting closer and closer with each completed circle of the tower. John's heart slammed painfully against his rib cage, his breathing speeding up with each inch that the shadow closed between them. Sherlock seemed to be trying his best to get a glimpse of what they were up against; his eyes got wider and wider as the shadow came closer. But it wasn't of any use; the darkness did an excellent job with hiding it. John jumped again, cursing under his breath. He could've sworn that something brushed up against his shoulder-

The shadow screeched to a halt and quickly flew away and down toward the ground.

"Come on." Sherlock got to feet, pulling John up with him and they both hopped to fly down and meet their opponent. There, in the bright face of the clock, the phantom simply floated.

And John felt his stomach drop.

Where there should've been a face, there was simply a hood with an opening into a black hole and where there should've been a body, there was darkness. The only thing distinguishable about its shape was the cloak that it donned; long and billowy, with tattered ends that gently moved with the rhythm of its hovering. John briefly looked to Sherlock, who was staring blankly at the sight before them.

"What do you make of it?" John said out of the corner of his mouth.

"I…I can't make anything."

"What do you mean you can't make anything?" John fiercely whispered. "You're bloody Sherlock Holmes; how can you sit there and say you don't know what to do?"

"Because I _don't_ know what to do," Sherlock swallowed. "I've never seen anything like this before-"

The phantom suddenly flew toward them, and out of instinct, John pushed them apart so that it flew between them. He spun around in a circle, trying his damndest to sturdy himself again, but his body completely overrode the commands of his brain to stop. Through the chaos of motion, he heard Sherlock shout something like a phrase in the distance and a flash of blue briefly danced across his vision.

Ice. He was casting an ice spell.

John's body finally slowed down and he blinked to try and control the whirl of his mind. In the distance, Sherlock and the phantom shot around like rockets, flashes of red, yellow and blue shooting out from Sherlock's hands as he cast different spells to fend off the enemy. But the phantom was relentless and pursued him like a bloodhound, occasionally swiping out with its long and menacing claw-like hands to catch him.

_I have to help._

John flapped his arms to start trying to swim his way toward them. The phantom righted itself and turned its sights on him. With a lightning fast motion, it pointed toward Big Ben and the clock's numbers lit up with little white orbs.

"What-" John looked down to his chest and squinted against the glow of the bright light.

"No!" Sherlock shouted, suddenly appearing next to him. "John, stop, don't move."

"What? Why-"

Sherlock looked between the clock and the glow of light coming from John's chest that was right on top of his heart. "You're under the Doom spell," he finally whispered, a look of pure horror on his face.

"What-" John panted, feeling as though he was suddenly sucking in smoke. "What are talking about?"

"You-" Sherlock swallowed. "You literally have ninety seconds to live."

John felt his stomach rise to his throat. "What the bloody hell do you mean?!"

"I…It's the worst time spell you can cast on someone; it's irreversible. There's nothing I can do-"

"Sherlock, no, you have to do something." John grabbed Sherlock's shirt, his grip suddenly feeling weak. "Think of something; use your mind palace!"

"I don't have time!" Sherlock looked to the phantom that was calmly floating in place and watching them. "The second we try to run, it'll be after us-"

John shook his head, trying to clear his vision of the dark spots that were quickly growing and blotting out Sherlock's face.

"What if we kill it- the phantom? What would happen if it disappeared?"

"The spell may lose its hold, but-"

"How do we kill it, Sherlock?" John interrupted, trying his best to sound calm.

"I don't know, I've been trying to figure that out-"

The phantom flew toward them again, and John felt the muscles of his arm burn like hellfire asit claws sink and drug their way through his arm. Through the haze of pain, he heard Sherlock cast another spell, leading the phantom away. John floated in paralyzing pain and tried his best to keep conscious - but he felt himself slipping away with each passing second. Suddenly, it was as if he was in Afghanistan all over again. The same feeling of hopelessness washed over him and he slowly felt himself drowning in his own fear. An old plea from his days in the midst of war slammed back to the front of his mind.

_Please, God, let me live…_

He opened his eyes and saw that the blank face of the phantom was right in front of him, so close that he could practically feel its ice-cold breath freezing his very lungs. It grabbed his shirt to keep him in place, and his body began to grow more slack as he felt the final countdown of his life begin.

_Ten…nine…eight…_

His body started to shut down limb by limb, organ by organ.

_Seven…six…_

The glow of light from his chest became brighter and brighter.

_Five…four…t__hree…_

John took a last deep breath and fell the darkness enclose him for the last time.

* * *

"John! John! Wake up! _John!_"

John's ears rang with a shrill sound and he let out the breath that he was unknowingly holding. But his strength -at least what was left after his injury- was quickly returning, and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock practically touching noses with him.

"What happened?" John asked dumbly, blinking to try and make his vision refocus.

"I killed it while it was distracted with you." Sherlock helped John to float upright. Immediately, they looked to the clock face, which was back to its normal appearance. "Are you all right?" Sherlock frantically checked John over for any other injuries.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just my arm," he replied with a nod to his right arm. "I'll need some stitches for these, but I'll live."

Sherlock nodded curtly, his face regaining a hint of color.

"You're sure that the phantom's really dead?" John asked as Sherlock gently put his good arm around his shoulders.

"If it wasn't, you would be dead." They started to fly back toward 221B. It was in John's mind to further question what exactly happened while he was preoccupied with possibly dying, but he felt his eyelids drooping and with a sleepy smack of his lips, he fell into the abyss of unconsciousness.

* * *

John shot up from the couch, squinting at the assault of bright light on his face. A burning morning streamed through the windows as sounds of life outside the flat floated to his ears. Everything was…back to normal. He let out a sigh of relief and looked down to his arm, which was-

Completely and utterly fine.

John blinked in shock. "Sherlock!" he called, getting up and swaying slightly. "Sherlock!"

From down the hall came the familiar stride of his flatmate. "Ah, you're awake," Sherlock said simply.

"My arm-it's-" John looked to his arm. "It's fine."

"Did something happen to it?"

John stared. "What do you mean 'did something happen to it'? Yes, something bloody happened to it – it got slashed by a phantom…spirit, demon-thing outside of Big Ben! In midair!" He felt his nostrils flare as Sherlock quietly stirred his tea and shrugged.

"Sounds like you have a very vivid dream," he said finally.

"What?"

"And a very creative one, at that. Your middle brain must be getting quite a bit of use these days-"

"WHAT?"

"But your higher brain is obviously having a problem absorbing what happened-"

"Shut up," John snapped, storming out of the flat and up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him. _A dream, he says; that was no bloody dream!_ John licked his lips and laughed softly to himself in aggravation. Sherlock was a master at mind games. This was just another one of those times; another one of his little schemes to make him look like an idiot. John sat down and examined his arm closer. There was absolutely no sign of trauma - his arm was in perfect working order. He searched his pockets for the vial from the night before and didn't find it. There was no evidence of anything happening that involved magic of any kind.

He sighed and looked to the ceiling.

_Should I even waste my time in trying to figure out if I'm being tricked or not?_

_Well...even if it was a dream, it's still worth sharing,_ he reasoned. _Maybe someone out there will get a right laugh out of it_. Sitting down with his laptop, John opened up a new blog post page and started to type:

_**The Clock Tower Phantom**_

_I know this is going to sound crazy, but just here me out on this one: so I came home from the shops after fighting with the chip and pin machine -and don't even get me started on what happened there- and Sherlock was with a client…_

* * *

**NOTE: This two-shot was heavily inspired by the level 'Neverland', specifically the area called 'Big Ben' from the video game **_**Kingdom Hearts**_** and by my favorite hidden boss within the game, Phantom. **

**Thanks for taking the time to read and I hope you enjoyed it (first time writing something like this)!**

**GeorgyannWayson**


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